Page 1 of How to Start a Scandal

Chapter One

June 1815—London, England

Lady Violet Lavell had been summoned to the Earl of Hollingston’s study, which never boded well, and was settled precariously upon the chair her eldest sister had once dubbed the ‘squeak seat’.

Her father cut an imposing figure with his large, square-shaped face and eyes that held the potential to bore into one’s very soul. There were moments of tenderness, of course, but now was not one of them.

‘You have four older sisters who are married with children of their own and a brother who has spent his life preparing to assume the title in addition to having his own family as well.’ Lord Hollingston’s brown eyes lifted from a piece of paper. Several stacks of paper, that was.

‘All my children have gone on about their lives,’ her father continued. ‘With one exception.’

His stare jabbed into her as though she was one of the hapless butterflies pinned into frames on his wall. ‘You,’ he said.

She shifted on the chair before she could stop herself.

Squeak.

Drat.

‘You are three and twenty, Violet,’ he continued. ‘Nearly “on the shelf” as it’s said these days. Yet you certainly spend money as if you are still seeking a husband.’ He tapped the stack of papers with his fingertips.

Her bills, no doubt.

‘You have no plans for an unexpected windfall, do you?’ He lifted his brows.

Actually, she did. But certainly nothing she meant to share with him. Not just yet, at least. Not until she built up the readership of her Lady Observer column in the Society Journal to the point where it generated a decent income. And by ‘decent income’, she meant the ability to afford more than a new dress once a year and a few sweets each month.

She sat quiet as a mouse, unmoving on the dreaded squeak seat.

He took her silence as surrender to his sound logic and proceeded. ‘Violet, I have indulged your desire to remain unwed long enough. It is high time you were married.’

Violet’s heart knocked hard in her chest. ‘Please do not make me, Father.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then laboriously lowered his hand back to the desk. ‘I anticipated that might be your response. If you refuse to wed, I’m afraid I will have to insist that you retire to the country.’

Violet nodded slowly. Retire to the country. It was not ideal, but she would readily take it over marriage.

‘As it happens, your sister is seeking a governess and would appreciate assistance with the children until she finds one.’

Squeak.

Drat.

‘Which sister?’ Violet asked quickly to cover up the groan of springs.

Please don’t let it be Sophie. Please don’t let it be Sophie. Please, please, please, be anyone but Sophie.

‘Sophie,’ her father answered.

At that, Violet’s insides withered with dread. Sophie had four children. They were an unruly, spoiled lot, resorting often to screaming fits as well as biting and all manner of awful habits.

Violet shuddered. ‘They’ve been through four governesses already. This year.’

Lord Hollingston’s expression was implacable. ‘Which is why I suppose she requires another.’

‘I would prefer not to, please,’ Violet said as prettily as was possible.

Her father remained unmoved. ‘Your only option, I’m afraid, is to either wed by the end of the Season, or retire to the country and assist Sophie.’